


Old Haunts

by DiscordantWords



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Case, Canon Divergence - The Hounds of Baskerville, Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, M/M, Past Drug Use, Season/Series 02, Sherlock's Past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-07 09:25:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12838209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscordantWords/pseuds/DiscordantWords
Summary: In the days following their return from Dartmoor, with the uncertain threat of Moriarty still hanging overhead, Sherlock and John take a case that changes everything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brilliantlyburning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brilliantlyburning/gifts).



> A million thanks to [verdant_fire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verdant_fire) for the incredibly helpful (and incredibly fast!) beta on this. You are AWESOME!
> 
> This particular story is set in S2, just after Hounds of Baskerville, but jumps the tracks to veer gleefully into AU territory from that point on. Assumes everything we already know about the characters and their backgrounds through S4. Consider this canon-informed but not canon-compliant. 
> 
> Brilliantlyburning, you said that you enjoy a sharper-edged S1-S2 Sherlock, angst and bed-sharing. I hope that some of this fits your criteria! :)

*

_Old haunts are for forgotten ghosts_  
\- The Gaslight Anthem

*

John had been edgy since Dartmoor, and Sherlock was dying for a cigarette. 

It would have given him something to do with his hands. His fingers had grown cold. He was bored of waiting, standing in an alleyway under a cold late-afternoon drizzle, watching Lestrade and Anderson and a half-dozen other half-witted Yarders try their hardest to complicate a relatively simple crime scene. 

Tedious even _with_ a sizable nicotine intake. Unbearable without it. 

But John had disposed of his last pack of cigarettes, his emergency rations, the ones he'd managed to badger him into revealing before they'd left for Grimpen Village. There was a sort of smug finality in his body language, something that stated quite clearly: _No point in harassing me this time, they're gone._

He'd considered harassing John anyway, just to have something to do, but—

Well. Given John's aforementioned edginess, it seemed ill-advised. 

It was the kind of wary edginess that was particular to John, he thought. Well-hidden. Easily overlooked, unless, of course, you knew what you were looking for. Which, of course, Sherlock did. 

He was unable to deduce exactly what it was that had John so troubled. The case had been solved, the appropriate demons laid to rest. They had, to his knowledge, experienced no lingering side-effects from the chemicals they'd been exposed to. And John had essentially laughed off the matter of Sherlock's little experiment (after making his displeasure quite clearly known).

They'd left the village on relatively good terms, he'd thought. The train ride had been uneventful. He could not recall doing or saying anything offensive. Nothing _unforgivably_ offensive, in any case.

And yet the air between them had curdled, slowly, in the days that followed. John was on edge but hiding it well, and seemed to resent Sherlock even intimating that he'd noticed something amiss. 

It left him frustrated and irritated, and very much in need of a cigarette. Or ten. 

"Lestrade," he said.

Lestrade glanced in his direction, offered up some sort of gesture that could have been either apologetic or dismissive, and resumed conversing with one of the utterly useless forensic techs. 

Sherlock scowled, looked away. He was half-tempted to leave. But—well—John had made it quite clear (on several separate occasions, no less) that solving a crime and failing to tell anyone the solution was frowned upon. 

Still. John couldn't fault him if no one was interested in hearing the solution. He'd also strongly implied that _interrupting_ and _showing off_ were undesirable behaviours, though he tended to be flexible when it came to the showing off. 

Sherlock looked back towards Lestrade. He was still involved in a rather animated conversation with the forensics tech. Behind him, a small crowd had gathered at the entrance to the alleyway, wide-eyed idiots craning their necks to get a glimpse of the carnage. 

There was a young woman standing at the edge of the police tape, watching them. 

Sherlock looked at her, noted her hands, the way they twisted and wrung together in an unconscious dance. The smudge of dark makeup under her left eye. The way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The nervous, intent way that she stared—purposeful, easy to distinguish from the casual onlookers and (inexplicably) fans that occasionally turned up to watch him work. 

He sighed. 

John was crouched beside a drying pool of blood on the pavement. He glanced up at the sound, frowned. 

"You're not going to tell me you're bored already, are you?" 

Perhaps the sigh had been overly theatric. Well. He was entitled to a bit of drama now and again, was he not? 

John was still eyeing him, awaiting a response. Ah. This was meant to be a _conversation._

"Client," he said. 

John stood up, still frowning. 

"Over there," Sherlock clarified. 

John followed his gaze towards the woman. She noticed his attention and lifted her hand, an abortive, tentative little wave. 

Sherlock sighed again. 

"Stop that," John said. 

"She's nervous," he said, looking her over again. "Doesn't live in London. Traveled here this morning. Clearly the matter is of some emotional importance—she's been crying, though she's tried to hide it." 

"Sherlock," John said, his voice low.

"Curious," Sherlock said, ignoring him. "She doesn't want to be here. Unlike the parade of would-be clients we've had lately, thanks to your blog." He cut his eyes towards John, smirking a bit, hoping for a reaction.

John was still frowning towards the woman, his lips pressed in a tight line.

"She's here because she feels she has no choice," Sherlock added. 

"Best not keep her waiting then," John said. He stepped from Sherlock's side, moved towards the police tape with quick strides. 

"But—"

John stopped, looked back at him.

Sherlock tipped his head meaningfully in the direction of the bloodstain. 

"Oh, come on," John said. 

"What?" 

"You solved it ten minutes ago. You're just drawing it out." 

Sherlock raised his brows. Opened his mouth. Found that words would not come willingly. Shut his mouth again. 

"Tell me I'm wrong," John said, and there was a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth. "You're just killing time. Waiting for Lestrade to stop talking to forensics so he can give you his full, undivided attention." 

Sherlock cleared his throat. Squared his shoulders. Attempted to salvage some semblance of dignity. "It wasn't murder. The victim attempted to fake his own death. Miscalculated. Pity." 

"Insurance scheme?" 

"Mm, likely, given what we know about his credit card debts and gambling habit." Sherlock looked back at the bloodstain, dark against the pavement in the fading sunlight. 

"There. See? Solved." John turned back towards the woman. "Come on." 

Sherlock caught up just as they reached the tape. He drew himself up to his full height, adjusted his coat collar. 

"Do be quick about it," he said to the woman. "The less time you waste on unnecessary details, the sooner I can solve your case." 

"Sherlock," John hissed. He tipped his head back, looked up at the grey sky as if seeking guidance from some higher power. Pinched his nose. Looked back at the woman. "Sorry," he said. "Sorry. He—he does that." 

"She knows that, John," Sherlock said, in what he felt was a remarkably patient tone, given the circumstances. "That's why she's here." 

John threw an elbow, and Sherlock snaked easily to the side to avoid it. He smiled, not entirely insincere.

"I need your help," the woman said. She looked younger, up close. Barely out of her teens. 

"Yes, that much is obvious," Sherlock said. He hesitated, glanced at John. Softened his posture. "Do go on." 

"Um," she said. She looked down at her hands. "It's difficult to explain." 

Sherlock opened his mouth, and this time he did not move quickly enough to dodge John's elbow, which nudged sharply against his ribs. He closed his mouth. Waited. 

"My name is Allie Turner." 

"Well. Now that we've got the hard part out of the way—"

" _Sherlock._ "

She looked between them, then back to Sherlock. Her eyes had cleared, hardened. The nervousness was bleeding away, replaced by frustration. Excellent. People were far less likely to hold back when angry. 

"My best friend has been accused of murder," she said. "He's being held by police." 

"And you believe he's innocent?"

"I know he's innocent," she said. 

"How do you know?" Sherlock pressed. 

"I—" she hesitated, gathered herself. "Because I know him. He's not capable." 

"You'd be surprised what people are capable of," Sherlock said. 

"No," she said, firm, certain now, the hesitance gone. "Not Jimmy. Not this." 

"Who's he meant to have killed?" 

"His father." 

John breathed out through his teeth, a sympathetic noise. His coat sleeve brushed against Sherlock's, distractingly close. 

"Mm," Sherlock said. "They didn't get along." 

She shook her head slowly, blinking, the same slow, bewildered look he often received from new people. "No. They—they fought. How did you--?"

"Please don't ask," John said. "Because he'll actually tell you." 

She looked between them again, then took a deep breath. "Jimmy was with his father yesterday morning. They argued. They—they were always fighting. But—" she paused. Tears had begun to gather in her eyes. "Jimmy left. He walked away. He assumed they'd talk again later, but—um. His father never came home." 

Movement to Sherlock's left. John had fumbled his notepad out of his coat pocket.

"Who found him?" John asked. 

"Jimmy called the police when he started to get worried. A few men went out to look." 

"After only a few hours?" Sherlock raised his brows. 

"Jimmy's father is—was—well-known." 

"Ah. Was he rich or a drunk?"

"Sherlock!"

"A bit of both," Allie said, unflinching. 

Sherlock looked back at John, daring him to say something. 

John cleared his throat, a sharp, irritated little sound, jotted something else down on his pad. 

"They found him at the bottom of an old well on the property. Not far from where Jimmy had left him after their argument." 

Something cold danced up Sherlock's spine. He shivered, pulled his coat a bit closer against the chill air. 

"No chance he'd just—" John hesitated, his voice turning apologetic, "—you know. Fallen in?"

"That was what everyone thought at first," Allie said. "But there were. Um. Marks. On his neck. Like he'd been choked. And the grass was—um. They said he'd been dragged." 

"So the official narrative is that your dear friend Jimmy murdered his father in a fit of rage, then hastily disposed of the body." 

"That's what they're saying. But they—" Allie paused, her voice wavering, near tears again. "But I know it can't be true. Please help. Please. Whoever did this is still out there." 

He could feel John's gaze on him, questioning. He tugged his coat again, nestled his chin into the warm soft fabric of his scarf. Nodded. 

"Right," John said. "Er—where—exactly?" 

"West Sussex," she said. 

Sherlock lifted his head, blinked. "Oh," he said.

He thought of tall grass, of uneven ground, of the groan and snap of wood beneath his feet. Shook his head, blinked away the memory. 

John turned back to look at him, his brow creased.

Allie appeared to be waiting for some sort of response. 

"Yes," he said, distracted. "Fine. Text me the details. We'll be along tomorrow." 

"Here," John said, flipping his notepad to a fresh page, scribbling something. "Take my number. We'll—"

Sherlock tuned out their conversation, looked up at the nearest building, his gaze drifting lazily over the aged, chipped brick. It had begun drizzling again, and his breath misted in the chill damp. That must be why he felt suddenly cold, why his hands trembled in his pockets, his fingers icy and leaden in his leather gloves. 

He really wanted a cigarette.

"Sherlock," John said, his voice close.

"Yes, fine, we'll take a train tomorrow," he said. 

"Are you—all right?" 

"Of course," Sherlock said. "Why wouldn't I be?" 

"Well. You look like you've seen a ghost." 

"No such thing as ghosts." 

"Not actually what I meant." 

"I grew up in West Sussex," Sherlock said. He frowned, not knowing why he had spoken at all. He was not in the habit of offering up personal information unbidden.

"Of course you did," John said. There was a sort of good-humoured mockery in his voice, though somewhat strained. 

Sherlock looked at him, tried to parse out what he meant by that.

John caught him looking, shook his head, laughed a little. "Big posh house, yeah?" 

He cleared his throat, shifted where he stood. Uncertain, and not liking the feeling. 

"It was, yes," he said.

"Was?" 

"Burned down when I was small," he said. In case the finality in his tone was not enough of a hint, he punctuated his sentence by turning and walking away. 

He had discovered long ago that it did not matter, exactly, where one walked, so long as he did so decisively. It was a fine tactic for discouraging further conversation. 

As expected, John did not follow. 

*

They took a late morning train to East Grinstead. 

John fussed with a plain croissant and a paper cup of coffee, brushing crumbs from his jeans. Rustled a newspaper.

Sherlock did not speak. 

He did not look out the window at the passing scenery. He did not think about crumbling stone, about slick treacherous darkness. He did not think about wagging tails and cold noses, did not think of noise and heat and licking flames barely glimpsed through hazy smears of smoke. 

He did not think about the particular snap that wood made as it gave way under pressure, that sharp gunshot crack. The rolling, pitching drop of his stomach.

"Read up on James McCarthy last night," John said, when he'd finished his croissant. 

Sherlock looked away from the scenery he was not watching, called his mind back from the thoughts he was not thinking. 

"Who?" 

"The suspect," John said. "Allie Turner's friend." He made a little frustrated noise, crushed the napkin he was holding in his hand. "For God's sake—the person whose name we're trying to clear." 

"And?" 

John breathed out, hard, his nostrils flaring. "The papers haven't been particularly kind to him." 

"Hm, no, I'd expect not." 

"There's an inheritance involved. Big one. Makes this all a bit messy." 

"He was strangled," Sherlock said. "An intimate murder, strangulation. Personal. Face-to-face." 

John looked at him, said nothing. His face was difficult to read. 

"He was then dragged a short distance over rough terrain. The murderer was strong enough to lift the body over the lip of the well and push it over. Coroner's report showed contusions and fractures consistent with a fall from that height. Believed to be sustained post-mortem." He studied John's expression for a moment, rolled his eyes. "Hacked into the police department website last night." 

"Right," John said. He sounded tired. 

Silence fell between them. It was an odd silence, uncomfortable. He had not shared many uncomfortable silences with John until Dartmoor. They were becoming more frequent, now. He did not much care for it. 

He returned his attention to the window, studied the smears on the glass where countless travelers had pressed fingers and shoulders and heads. 

"So," John said, after a long silence. "West Sussex." 

"Ye-es," Sherlock said, drawing out the word, not sure where he was headed. 

"Sorry if I—" John stopped, looked down at his hand, his fist clenched around the tattered napkin. "I didn't know if—" 

"If what?"

"If it's a sore subject. Or—" John stopped again, breathed out through his nose. Stared straight ahead, not really looking at anything. He only did that when he was uncomfortable, when he was trying and failing to find the right words. 

His expression twisted something in Sherlock's chest, and he looked away.

"Why would it be a sore subject?" 

John laughed, humourless. "Come on."

"I barely remember it," Sherlock said, his voice very casual. "Heard the details years later from Mycroft." 

And that was the truth—wasn't it? He could remember little of the old family home _(Musgrave)_ save for faint, indistinct images. Tall grass and gravestones and sweet honey. The snap of old, rotting wood underfoot. Redbeard.

Except—Redbeard was later, wasn't he? Or—

"Still," John said, his voice cutting in through Sherlock's thoughts. "Can't have been easy. House burning down." 

_I will burn you,_ Moriarty had said, that night at the pool, his face twisting up, teeth bared. 

"It's fine," Sherlock said, aware that too much time had gone by, that he'd been silent for too long. 

John shifted in his seat. He seemed to want to say more. 

Sherlock waited. The moment stretched on. 

Finally, John turned away. He did not speak again until the train pulled in at the station.

*

The first two inns they tried were booked.

"I'm never letting you make the travel plans again," John said. 

Sherlock glanced at him. "I didn't make any travel plans." 

John blew out air between his teeth. "I know." 

They went through the door of the third. Sherlock looked around at the lobby. It was sparsely decorated. Clean, but plain. 

"Don't start," John said. 

"Start?"

"Deducing. Or complaining. Or whatever it is you were about to do. If they have space available, we're staying here." 

Bored with the conversation, Sherlock opted not to answer. Instead he went over to the front desk, tapped the little bell on the counter. 

The desk clerk, who had been reading a magazine, looked up at him without amusement. 

"Ah—" John said, hurrying over. He placed himself between Sherlock and the desk, offered the woman a rather charming smile (disproportionately and unnecessarily charming, really, it's not as if he'd been _that_ rude). "Please tell me you have rooms. A room. Anything." 

"Of course they have rooms, John," Sherlock said, stepping up close behind John and dropping his voice just slightly, conspiratorial but still audible. He winked at the clerk, who flushed and looked down. "This is an inn." 

"Well," she said, lifting her gaze again. She smiled. 

"Available rooms," John clarified. He raised his brows at Sherlock, who smirked. 

She frowned, bit her lip. Turned away to look at a stack of papers behind her. There did not appear to be a computer anywhere in the lobby. Sherlock despaired of the probable lack of a Wi-Fi connection. 

The clerk returned, set two keys down on the counter. "You're in luck. We had a last-minute cancellation." 

"Fantastic," John said. He took one of the keys. 

"It's a twin room," she said. "All we have."

"Yes, fine," Sherlock said. He picked up the second key, put it in his coat pocket. 

"Sorry we couldn't do a double," she said. 

John had shut his eyes, was making the face that usually meant he was calling upon great reserves of inner patience.

"It's fine," John said, without opening his eyes. His voice sounded strained. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. The desk clerk was hardly the first person to mistake them for a couple. John usually brushed this off with varying degrees of indignation. But he'd said nothing this time. Why had he said nothing? 

The clerk was still speaking.

"—Bluebell," she said.

He startled back to full awareness. "What?" 

"The Bluebell Railway," she said, still smiling, though dimmed under his scrutiny. "Steam locomotive, beautifully preserved. Runs from East Grinstead to Sheffield Park. It's a lovely trip." She paused, and then _winked,_ actually winked. "Very romantic." 

"Right," John said, his voice sounding strangled and strained. "Yep. Ta." 

*

The room was tiny; two twin beds with a small nightstand between. A scuffed table against the wall holding up an aging television. Cramped bathroom. 

Sherlock examined the bedding. No smell of must or mould. The sheets were soft, freshly laundered. 

John set his suitcase down at the foot of the bed against the far wall. Stood looking down at it for a moment. 

The air felt strange between them. Sherlock wondered if that was just how it was going to be, now.

He set his own case down. Cleared his throat. 

"The McCarthy estate isn't far." 

John glanced up quickly. There was something on his face that Sherlock could not quite parse. Something that looked an awful lot like relief. "Yeah. Good. We should get out there, then." 

*

The McCarthy house was large, well-kept, set back from the road on a rambling plot of land. Picturesque and isolated, far from the endless winding rows of neat brick homes near the rail station. 

Sherlock parked their hired car next to a gleaming sports car. Watched John swivel his head to admire it. 

It was a rather startling shade of green. And new, he noted. Very new. The tyre treads had not worn down at all. 

He bypassed the house, went straight for the woods that stretched behind it. Behind him, John swore and hurried to keep up. 

"Allie Turner said the well was on the southeast end of the property—"

Sherlock had learned to ignore John when he was stating the obvious rather than point out that he was, in fact, stating the obvious. 

"We ought to talk to the police when we're done here. See if we can get in to speak with Jimmy McCarthy," John added, jogging a little to catch up.

"Waste of time. What could he possibly tell us that would be of any use?"

John made a frustrated sound. "Well. You could tell if he's lying, for one." 

"Mm. No. He's telling the truth. He didn't murder his father." 

"You can't possibly know that for sure." 

Sherlock stopped walking, looked John in the eye. "If you were going to murder someone—someone you've publicly feuded with—would you hide his body in a commonly known spot on your own property?"

John blinked at him, shook his head. "Why do I feel like this is a trick question?"

"It doesn't make any sense." 

"Sherlock," John said. "People don't always think things through when they're scared." 

"He called the police," Sherlock said. "His father had only been missing a few hours, and he called the police. Why would he have done that, if he knew the body was here on the property?" 

John shrugged. "Diverting suspicion?" 

"He could have used the time to move the corpse. Could have covered his tracks. Instead, he called the police and all but guaranteed his own arrest. He's not the killer, John." 

"All right," John said, holding his hands out in a placating gesture. "Just trying to be thorough." 

Sherlock resumed walking. The grass was long, and damp, and twined around his ankles. 

"Was it like this?" John asked, after a time. "Your—the place where you grew up?" 

Sherlock's stride faltered. He glanced at John. Could glean nothing from his face but a sense of guarded curiosity. 

"Why?"

"Just—making conversation." John grimaced. "Sorry. Just—forget it." 

"Six years," Sherlock said. 

"Sorry—what?" 

"I was six years old. When we moved." 

"Oh," John said. He shook his head, as if clearing it. "Oh. So you don't really—you wouldn't remember all that much about it, then." 

"No," Sherlock said, and quite carefully did not think about Redbeard, or the way the blades of grass felt familiar as they lashed against his legs. "Not much." 

"I just—" John made a strangled, forced little sound that seemed like it had, perhaps, been intended as a laugh. "Hardly know anything about you." 

Sherlock stopped walking again, frowning, furrowing up his brow. "What else is there to know?" 

"I don't know," John said, clearly uncomfortable. "Just—friend things." 

"Friend things?" 

"Things you tell your friends. Eventually. You know. Where you grew up. Funny stories from school. Name of your first crush. That sort of thing." 

Comprehension seemed to be slipping farther and farther away, a sensation he found wholly unfamiliar and wholly unwelcome. 

"Just forget I said anything," John muttered. He looked away, did not meet Sherlock's eye. 

Sherlock studied him for a moment, resumed walking. 

"You already know things about me," Sherlock said, uncertain. 

"Yeah. You're right. Just forget it." 

"But what does it matter?"

"It doesn't. Sherlock. Forget it." 

Sherlock stopped walking again, confused. 

John shook his head, still not looking at him, went striding on ahead.

"Here," John called back over his shoulder. "It's right here." 

Sherlock hurried to catch up.

The well rose up out of the grass, the rough grey stone kept in good nick. It, like everything else on the McCarthy property, seemed well-maintained and cared for. 

The grass had been trampled, both by the murderer and victim and—irritatingly—the police officers first arriving on the scene. 

He stepped carefully towards the well, placed his gloved hands on the cold stone lip, peered down into the darkness. 

Shivered. 

He looked away from the well, folded his hands beneath his chin. Considered. "A wealthy drunk, well-known to police, goes for a walk on his own property with his son. They've a contentious relationship. It's not a secret. They argue—which seems like a fairly obvious outcome, not entirely sure why they'd have expected it to end differently this time—son leaves the scene in a bit of a huff." 

"So he says," John said. 

"Strangulation," Sherlock said. He followed the trails in the crushed grass, paused. "Here. Right here. Face-to-face, judging by the marks on the neck." He extended his hands, mimed grabbing at a throat. "The killer would have been looking right at him, lowering him down to the ground, watching as the life went out of his eyes." 

"Well. That's a lovely visual. Thank you." 

"It would have taken _time,_ " Sherlock said. "It's not a quick death, or a particularly easy one. Not a gunshot, or a blow to the head. Nothing that could be written off as a so-called crime of passion." He let his hands drop to his sides, studied the ground. "He was dragged. Face-up. Here. See the marks in the dirt? Left by his heels. He was moved quickly. The coroner mentioned minor abrasions along his back and neck, where his shirt had ridden up." 

"All right, so he was moved quickly." 

"Decisively," Sherlock said, taking swift strides back towards the well, pointing along the ground as he went. "A straight path to the well. It wasn't a convenient place chosen in a fit of panic, John, the killer knew it was there. He chose it. He dragged the body to the well, lifted it, pushed it over the edge, and there you have it. Farewell, Victor." 

"Charles." 

"What?"

John was giving him a strange look, his brow furrowed. "The victim. His name was Charles." 

Sherlock frowned, shook his head. "Doesn't matter." 

"Of bloody course it matters." 

Irritation rose at being wrong, at being called on it. "Well yes, obviously, it matters to _someone_. But he's dead, and I hardly think it matters to him what he's called." 

"Or to you," John said, and Sherlock tried not to hear the bitterness behind those words. 

"Would you rather I devote my attention to remembering the man's name or finding his killer?" Sherlock looked at the slick stone around the mouth of the well, looked away. It made him feel strangely queasy. "Because I'm fairly certain the latter is more important." 

"Right," John said, gritting his teeth, visibly holding back from saying more. 

A part of Sherlock did not want him to hold back, wanted him to be vicious, to lash out, to say whatever it was that had been slowly poisoning the air between them since Dartmoor. 

His phone rang, cutting through the silence. 

"John," he said.

John made a frustrated sound, took two quick steps forward (for a thrilling moment, Sherlock wondered if he was about to throw a punch) and fished the phone out of Sherlock's pocket. His movements were quick, jerky, not at all amused. 

He looked at the screen. 

"It's Lestrade." 

"Don't—" Sherlock said, but it was too late. John had answered. 

"Hi Greg," John said, his voice tight, clipped. "Yeah. He's here. Hold on." 

He passed the phone over. Sherlock reluctantly lifted it to his ear. 

"Sherlock," Lestrade said. His voice was tinny, distant. There was a burst of noise in the background. Pub, by the sound of it. 

"You know I prefer to text," Sherlock said, absent, looking around at the trees, the overlong grass.

"You weren't answering your bloody texts." 

"And still you failed to take the hint." 

"I have a case." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No you don't." 

There was another burst of sound behind Lestrade. He was walking, likely seeking someplace quiet to talk. 

"I do," Lestrade said. "It's important. I need your help."

"You're at a _pub,_ how important could it be?"

"How—"

"Do you really want to know?" Sherlock asked, irritated now. "Because I'll tell you." He glanced over at John, daring him to say something. 

John's mouth tightened. He looked away.

"No," Lestrade said. "Actually, I don't. But—" 

"I've been monitoring the news out of London. There's nothing your team can't manage to handle." 

"I—" 

"Try harder next time," Sherlock said, and hung up. He went to hand the phone back to John, then, annoyed at his own lack of attention, dropped it into his coat pocket.

"What was that about?" John asked.

"Lestrade's trying to lure me back to London." 

John made a strange face. "He's what? Does he have a case?"

"That's what he said." 

"I don't understand." 

"I'm not surprised." Sherlock turned and struck off through the tall grass back in the direction they had come, damp leaves squelching beneath his shoes. It was an unpleasant feeling, and he picked up his pace.

_I don't understand either,_ Sherlock did not say, though he thought it. It troubled him. He did not know why Lestrade would attempt to lure him home with a lie, and yet he was quite certain that was exactly what had just happened. 

Lestrade had shown up in Grimpen Village, too. 

"Mycroft," he said. He stopped short.

John walked into his back, put out an apologetic hand to steady himself. There was a warm pressure on Sherlock's waist, there and gone. 

"What?" John, hopelessly confused, now. Inexplicably, it made Sherlock feel fond rather than impatient. "Your brother? What about him?" 

"He doesn't want me to leave London." 

" _What?_ Why not?" 

Sherlock frowned. "I don't know." He turned, once more began walking. Heard John's frustrated exhalation behind him. 

They walked further. 

"He's worried about something," Sherlock said. 

"Mycroft?"

"Yes, obviously, do keep up." 

"Right, sure, yeah. Because you're being so clear." 

The house loomed up ahead. He took off at a jog, eager to leave the conversation behind. 

"Sherlock—" John called, and the grass rustled as he hurried to keep up. 

"The car," he said. 

John drew up next to him, followed his gaze to the sports car. "What about it?" 

"Hideous colour." 

"Bit loud, yeah." 

"Kind of car you buy when you want to make a statement." 

John shrugged, scratched at the back of his neck. "I suppose." 

Sherlock felt a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, and gave in to it. He loved this moment, the surge of understanding, the way his thoughts clicked together in a rush that was better than cocaine. 

John made a scoffing sound, folded his arms across his chest. Waited. 

"This—" Sherlock spread his arms, indicated the house, the car, the sprawling plot of land, "—was all very new to Charles McCarthy." 

John raised his brows. Whether it was due to his statement or due to Sherlock using the correct name, he could not say. "What makes you say that?" 

"Look at the car, John. Really look at it. Brand-new, loud colour, hardly used. And—" he took his phone out of his pocket, pulled up McCarthy's Facebook account, waved it in John's face. "I'm sure you looked him up last night, too. Anything stand out to you?" 

John shrugged. "Dunno. He was—rich. Obviously. Seemed to be enjoying himself." 

"Yes, John! Exactly. He _was_ rich. Wanted everyone to know it. Designer brands—" he scrolled to the next photo. "Flashy cars. Expensive liquor. But these photos are all recent—go back more than two years and there's _nothing._ Because two years ago, Charles McCarthy didn't have pricey clothes or fast cars, and he was in no hurry to advertise it. Nouveau riche."

John rolled his eyes. "All right, fine. So what?"

"I'll tell you when we find the source of his newfound wealth." 

*

It was easy, in the end. It often was. 

Allie Turner met them in a café near the inn, sat prim and pale and nervous across the table. Picked at a scone with shaking fingers. 

"How long have you known Jimmy McCarthy?" Sherlock asked her, careful to keep his voice encouraging, very conscious of John at his side. 

Allie went on crumbling her scone, an absent motion. "Um. About two years now, I suppose. Since he and his father moved in." 

"And yet you believe you know him well enough to state, unequivocally, that he's not a murderer." 

"I know him," she said. Firm. Certain. Unwavering.

It was his opinion that people rarely deserved the faith that others placed in them.

John's arm brushed against his as he lifted his cup of tea. 

But occasionally, they did. 

"Has he always argued with his father?" 

She looked down at the table. There were tears in her eyes. "No." 

"When did it start?"

She looked up again. Her face was anguished. "Last year."

John shifted in his seat next to him. Cleared his throat. "Er—any chance you could clarify what it was that they fought about?" 

She let out a miserable little laugh. "Me." 

"You." 

"Jimmy's father wanted us to get married. He was—extremely vocal about it." 

"That's—" John paused, looked at Sherlock with bewilderment etched in the lines of his face. "Not exactly what I was expecting." 

"Allie, is there some reason that Jimmy's father would have pressed for you to marry?" Sherlock asked. He steepled his hands under his chin, fixed her with his gaze. 

She looked back at him, her gaze defiant. "Jimmy's gay." 

"Ah." 

"But—" she frowned, shook her head. "It's not—his father had known for years, Jimmy said. He never had—he never had a problem with it. It was fine. It had always been fine. He never said anything. Until this. Jimmy said it was like he changed overnight—all of a sudden it was all he could talk about. The pressure was unrelenting. It got so bad that they couldn't even be in the same room." 

John made a sympathetic sound. Took another sip of his tea. 

"Why the interest in you, specifically?" Sherlock asked. 

Allie shrugged. "Who the hell knows? I was—around—a lot. My parents have been fighting. A lot. Lately. So I've been spending a lot of time there. We're close, Jimmy and I. Maybe he just thought—" 

"From what you've described, it wasn't an idle hope. More like an obsession." Sherlock frowned. "And he specifically mentioned marriage?" 

"Yes," she said. "Why?" 

"Seems a big step. You're—what—nineteen?" 

"Where are you going with this, Sherlock?" John asked. 

"Charles McCarthy suddenly and inexplicably became fixated on the idea of his gay son marrying a woman." 

"He'd hardly be the first parent to—" 

"Marriage, specifically, John. He wasn't pushing for them to date. He had a reason, a particular reason for wanting his son to enter a legal arrangement with Ms Turner, and it had nothing at all to do with the fact that she's a woman." 

Allie stopped crumbling her scone, wiped her hands on a napkin. "What do you mean?" 

"How long has your father known Charles McCarthy?"

"My father?" She shrugged. "They're old friends. They go back years." 

"Yet you never met his son until they moved here two years ago." 

"They lived overseas, he said." 

"Did your father ever mention McCarthy until he turned up?" 

"No, but—" 

"You have a trust fund, I assume?" 

"Sherlock!"

"I don't understand what that has to do with anything." 

"Do you?" 

She sat back in her chair, met his gaze again. "Yes." 

"Substantial?"

She nodded.

"And it's yours, entirely?"

"Yes," she said, still holding his gaze. 

Sherlock clapped his hands together. Sat back. "That's what McCarthy was after." 

"My trust fund?" She frowned, shook her head. "But he had money—he had—" 

"No," Sherlock said. "He's been _spending_ money. If I had to guess, I'd say he's extorting it from your father. Bit of blackmail from back in the day. Likely the source of tension between your parents." He smiled without humour. "Well. I suppose everyone has their secrets." 

"Jesus," John said. 

Allie had gone white as a sheet. 

"But his priorities changed when he realized that a large chunk of it was under your name, out of his reach," Sherlock said. "So he came up with a new plan." 

"Push Jimmy into marrying me." 

"Exactly. Knew you'd catch up." 

"Then who killed him?" 

"Ah," Sherlock said. The smile dropped from his lips. "That part you're not going to like." 

*

"Terrible," John said, later, as they walked back towards the inn. "Just—" 

"People don't take kindly to being blackmailed," Sherlock said. The sun was slipping below the horizon, the shadows gathering close and dark. "Sometimes they fight back." 

"But he planned it," John said. "I can understand wanting to protect his daughter, but he _planned_ it so that his actions would directly implicate an innocent man." 

"Clearly, in his mind, implicating Jimmy McCarthy in the murder of his father would remove all of McCarthy's influence from his daughter's life," Sherlock said. "Two birds, one stone. Isn't that the saying?" 

"It doesn't bother you at all, does it?" John asked. He was frowning, his eyes difficult to read in the fading daylight. 

"What?" 

"That Allie Turner just found out her father's a murderer." 

"You think it would be better for her not to know?" 

"No," John said. "Just—" 

"Just what?"

John looked at him for a moment that stretched on too long. Dropped his gaze. "Nothing. Forget it." 

"Would it have been kinder to lie to her?" Sherlock pressed. "To let Jimmy McCarthy be tried for murder?" 

"Of course not."

"She'd have figured it out eventually," Sherlock said.

"That's not the point," John said, seeming to forget that he'd been eager to drop the line of conversation just moments before.

"Then what is the point?" 

John held his gaze for a long moment. Worried at his lip with his teeth. 

Sherlock waited. His heart rate had increased. He did not know why. 

John turned away. Resumed walking. 

Disappointment burned in the back of Sherlock's throat. Disappointment over what, he could not say. 

They stopped at the door to the inn. Sherlock put his hand out, grasped the door handle. Thought about the cramped room upstairs with its two small beds.

"You know what?" John took a step backwards. "I think I need a pint. You go on up." 

He turned away, walking off down the pavement without another word. Sherlock stood and watched him go. 

*


	2. Chapter 2

*

He went up to the room, unlocked the door. Flopped onto the little bed against the wall without bothering to remove his coat or shoes.

The case was solved.

He could now devote his mind to solving another problem entirely. 

John was angry with him. Had been since Dartmoor.

Except—that didn't quite fit. It wasn't anger. Not entirely, and not all the time. There were stretches of time when John seemed himself, when nothing felt strained or strange. They worked well together. John tended to display a sense of long-suffering frustration and inexplicable fondness in equal measure. It was only the time in between that had changed—the quiet moments.

The way that sometimes John looked at him with an expression of—disappointment. 

Disappointment? Why disappointment? 

He called up recent examples: John's face, pinched and resigned. John, shaking his head. John, with a flare of anger in his eyes that he quickly tamped down. 

_Farewell, Victor._

_His name was Charles._

Sherlock shook his head, waved the memory away. A poor example. His own error. It was true that he generally wasn't bothered about names, but he _had_ known the victim was Charles. He'd spent the previous night reading up on him. 

_Farewell, Victor._

It wasn't what he meant to be analyzing. Irritated, he once again tried to banish the memory, a quick flick of his hand in the air. 

_Farewell, Victor._

The tall grass had wound around his ankles, damp cold tendrils. The creak of old wood underfoot. Cold air below. The gunshot crack-snap as the wood gave way. 

He did not often reflect on his past. Childhood was insignificant, irrelevant. He'd grown up, he'd forged himself an identity, he'd carried on. He was not the kind of person to succumb to saccharine nostalgia upon visiting a place he'd once lived. 

He was meant to be thinking about John. Or perhaps about Lestrade, and why he'd tried to lure Sherlock back to London with the promise of a new case. 

Charles McCarthy, strangled and battered at the bottom of that well. He'd been found quickly. His son had been genuinely concerned for his well-being, in spite of their feud. 

Old wood underfoot. Creaking, cracking, snapping. 

The well had been carefully maintained. Everyone knew it was there. What if they hadn't known? How long would McCarthy have floated down there, while on the surface the rest of the world went about their lives? How long would Allie Turner's father have been able to keep his secret? 

_Farewell, Victor._

He thought about warm summer sunshine, of light glinting off of russet fur. He'd picked Redbeard up out of a box of wriggling puppies, held him close, giggled as he'd laved his face with a warm rough tongue. 

He'd cradled Redbeard in his lap the whole way home. He had been warm and content and glowing with happiness. That was the way it had begun.

 _I'm sorry, son._ His father's voice. His father's hand on his shoulder. His father's face, pinched with sorrow. That was the way it had ended. 

Redbeard had been old. He'd been sick. That was what _happened._

There had been sunlight in his father's hair. His eyes had been pinched. He'd been squinting. 

_I'm sorry, son._

He'd fallen apart, hadn't he? Collapsed sobbing into his father's arms, because Redbeard was _gone—_ and he'd been left behind the way Mycroft had warned, he'd been sentimental and foolish and his father had held him in the warm sunlight and whispered apologies into his hair and—

There hadn't been any sun. Not then, not in the sterile grey room with Redbeard on the table and the veterinarian in his white coat. Redbeard's end had been clinical. 

_I'm sorry, son._

He'd been so small, his father's embrace had surrounded him, made him feel safe and secure even as he lashed out in misery and anger and resentment—

No. 

Redbeard had been _old._ Sherlock would not have been small. Still a child, yes, still young, but well into his early teens. He'd sprouted. He'd been nearly as tall as his father. Those warm, enveloping embraces had gone the way of other childish things.

_I'm sorry, son._

His father, apologizing over and over again in the sunlight while he sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. A box of puppies, wriggling and yelping and wagging and begging to be petted. 

His father had picked him up, walked towards the car, and Sherlock had watched over his shoulder as the box of puppies receded behind them, farther and farther and farther away—

 _I'm sorry, son. You know we can't. You know how bad my allergies are. I wish we could. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Sherlock._

He'd sobbed in the car the whole way home. 

He shook his head, hard, banishing the memory.

 _Oh, Sherlock,_ Mycroft's voice, pained and devastatingly gentle. _I've told you time and again. Caring is not an advantage._

"All lives end," Sherlock said out loud, his eyes closed. "All hearts are broken." 

When would Mycroft have said such a thing to him, if not after Redbeard? What possible reason could he have had? Sherlock had not made any close attachments in his boyhood, in his teens, in his early twenties. There had been nothing, no one until John. 

_I'm so sorry, son._

His limbs were trembling, useless. He shivered under his coat. 

_All lives end._

_I'm so sorry, son._

Redbeard running behind him. Sunshine and tall grass. Slick stone and cold air. The crack of wood. The ground underfoot dropping away into impenetrable darkness. 

_Sixteen by six and under we go._

He rolled over onto his side, curled up. Stared at the shifting shadows on the wall.

 _Oh God,_ he thought. _Redbeard._

He thought, inexplicably, of Kirsty Stapleton and her lost rabbit. 

There was a sound behind him and he opened his eyes, looked at the wall with its peeling yellowed paper. The light in the room had changed. He'd been there for some time. 

"Sherlock?" John's voice was tentative, low. Sherlock could read his hesitation in the uncertain creak of the wood floor. 

He did not respond. There was a discolouration on the wall, halfway up, faded but still visible. He tracked it upward, traced its path to an ancient water stain on the ceiling. An old leak, then. Long since repaired.

He held himself still, wondered at what point John would give up and leave. 

A rustle of fabric, the scrape of a shoe along the floorboard. Tentative movement. Towards or away?

The bed dipped as John sat down at the edge. 

The silence was palpable. Sherlock wanted to turn over to look. He remained where he was. 

"Sherlock," John said. His voice was low. Respiration elevated. Nervous. The fabric of his coat rustled as he reached out a hand, placed it on Sherlock's shoulder. The warm weight of it was comforting and frightening all at once. 

Sherlock said nothing. He lay on his side, stared at the wall. Breathed. 

"Are you—? This isn't—" John stopped. Breathed out hard through his nose. A frustrated sound. "What, exactly, is this?" 

"Thinking," Sherlock said, his lip curling up. "Wouldn’t expect you to understand." 

"No," John said, and he didn't even seem perturbed by the barb. "I've seen you thinking. This is something else." 

Sherlock was grateful he had not turned over. He shut his eyes. 

John smelled of the pub. Greasy food and beer and other people, crowded close together, shoulder-to-shoulder. He was not drunk. There was only the faintest trace of beer on his breath. He'd sat and nursed his pint, then, had sat and watched other people and lingered as long as he could before he could no longer invent reasons to stay away. 

"I had a dog," Sherlock said. 

John shifted where he sat. Sherlock could read the surprise in his movement. "You—what?" 

"A dog. Surely you're familiar with the concept." 

"When did you have a dog?" John paused. His hand was still resting on Sherlock's shoulder. "Here? In Sussex?" 

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Except I'm not actually sure that's true." 

Another frustrated breath, though this one seemed more self-directed than aimed at Sherlock. John's hand on his shoulder did not waver. "I don't know what you mean." 

"Excellent," Sherlock said, and he turned over, sat up. "That makes two of us." 

John's hand fell away. Sherlock stood, went out the door without looking back. 

*

He walked along quiet streets until he reached the train station. His breath steamed in the chill night air. It looked like smoke. He wished it were smoke. 

He stopped to look at the schedules. There was a sign advertising the Bluebell Railway the clerk at the inn had been so enthusiastic about. It was weatherworn, the colour faded in parts. 

Bluebell, he thought. Turned into a fairy and flew away into the night. A lie to cover up a painful truth. 

Charles McCarthy, dead at the bottom of a well, his son in prison. A lie, meant to protect.

Someone was breathing in the darkness just behind him. 

"Please tell me you've brought cigarettes," Sherlock said. 

"Just the one," Mycroft said. He stepped up next to Sherlock, shoulder-to-shoulder. Removed a cigarette from his coat pocket and lit it with slow, deliberate movements. 

"Low tar," Sherlock said, sniffing the air. He made a face.

"Beggars cannot be choosers, brother mine." Mycroft passed him the cigarette. 

He took it, breathed in. Tried not to shiver with the pleasure of it. Forced himself to scowl instead. 

"Planning on doing a bit of sightseeing?" Mycroft asked, inclining his head towards the Bluebell Railway advertisement. 

Sherlock blew out a stream of smoke. He did not speak.

Mycroft settled in beside him, staring off into the middle distance. Sherlock was entirely too conscious of his eyes on him, of his steady determination not to break the silence first. 

He took another pull on the cigarette, shut his eyes. 

Mycroft said nothing. His umbrella tapped against the ground. His breath steamed in the cold air. 

"Whatever brought you here, it must be good," Sherlock said finally, mockery creeping into his voice. "Wars aren't won or lost in West Sussex." 

"Aren't they?"

He opened his mouth for a sharp reply, stopped. Mycroft's face was pallid and weary. "You've been lying to me." 

"Yes," Mycroft said. 

Sherlock frowned, looked down at the cigarette burning between his fingers. "Why?" 

"That's rather complicated," Mycroft said, after a time. 

"Oh, right, I forgot. You're the smart one. Well. Use small words and short sentences. I'm sure I'll pick it up eventually." 

"Sherlock—" 

"You have me tailed every time I leave London." 

"Not true." 

"Every time I leave London for a more rural destination." 

"Rural locations are boring," Mycroft said, his smile brief and insincere. "You tend towards destructive behavior when bored." 

"Wrong answer," Sherlock said, unamused. "Try again." 

"I worry about you." 

He dropped his cigarette, ground it under the heel of his shoe. Turned towards Mycroft, lip curled. " _Why?_ " 

"I fear the countryside may stir up old memories. There's a saying, you know. Let sleeping dogs lie." 

"Funny you should mention dogs," Sherlock said. 

Mycroft winced, visibly, the reaction startling in its overtness. 

"Redbeard," Sherlock said.

Mycroft squared his shoulders, looked at him. "What about him?"

"I have memories," Sherlock said. He scowled, frustrated, looked down at the ground. "But they—I can't seem to—" 

"May I remind you that the average human memory is only—" 

Sherlock looked up. Met Mycroft's gaze. "Childhood memories. Boring. Unimportant." 

"Yes." 

"And I have a dog in all of them." 

"Redbeard," Mycroft said. "I know." 

"He's there, and then he isn't." 

"That is, as I understand, what happens with pets." 

"Yes, fine," Sherlock said, impatient now. "Child has a dog. Dog gets old and dies. Child is distraught but eventually grows up and moves on. Sad story. We've all heard it before." 

Mycroft was watching him closely, his brow pinched. He did not speak. 

"The problem, _brother_ , is that when I think about it, when I _really_ think about it, nothing makes any sense at all." 

Mycroft opened his mouth.

"When did Redbeard die?" Sherlock interrupted before he could speak. 

"I—" 

"Did he live with us after Musgrave burnt down?" 

"Sherlock, you—" 

"TELL ME!" Sherlock shouted, and his voice echoed through the quiet streets. He looked down at the ground, suddenly exhausted beyond measure. 

"Have you been to see the grounds?" Mycroft asked, his voice oddly brittle. 

"Why would I do that?" 

"The time where I understood why you do anything that you do has long since come and gone." 

"No," Sherlock said. 

Mycroft breathed out slowly. His fingers twitched, likely in want of a cigarette. "Do you remember Musgrave, at all?" 

"Of course." 

Mycroft cocked his head, fixed him with a stern look. 

Sherlock sighed, relented. "Very little." 

"Be specific, if you don't mind." 

Sherlock sighed again, shifted his feet. Looked up at the sky. Tried to remember. "Tall grass," he said.

"That's all?" 

"There was—there was a graveyard. Nearby. I think." 

"Yes. What else?" 

"And Redbeard," Sherlock said. "We would play together." 

Mycroft pursed his lips, studied him for a moment. "Do you remember the first time I found you?"

"You'll have to be more specific." 

"The first time I pulled a needle out of your arm?" Mycroft's voice shook with barely restrained anger. 

Sherlock did not reply. 

"You opened your eyes and smiled at me," Mycroft said. "And then you began to weep." 

"You must have me confused with someone else." 

Mycroft ignored him. "You told me it was all your fault. That Redbeard was dead and you were to blame." 

Sherlock shut his eyes. Felt a prickle of unease creep down his spine. "If you're about to tell me that I burned down our childhood home, I think I'd prefer to continue living in ignorance." 

Mycroft barked out a laugh. His eyes were sad. "No, Sherlock. _You_ did no such thing." 

Sherlock swallowed. Was all too conscious of the cold damp air, even through his coat. "Implying that someone else did." 

Mycroft said nothing. His silence was terribly loud. 

"Mycroft." 

Mycroft turned to look at him. His eyes were distant, pained. It was an unusually human expression, and Sherlock looked away, discomfited. 

And Mycroft began to speak. 

*

"Get up," Sherlock said. 

John blinked awake, sat up, stared at him. His face was creased with sleep, his hair rumpled.

"What?" he asked. 

Sherlock did not answer, picked up John's coat from where it was draped over a little high-backed chair. Held it out. 

John stared at him for a moment, his eyes gleaming in the darkness. Then he groaned, rolled over, switched on the lamp. Reached for his jeans. 

There were times that John did not question him, simply took action. It was the soldier in him.

They went out together into the hall, stepping quietly. John was alert, bright-eyed, his shoulders squared. Ready for anything. 

_Not ready for this,_ Sherlock thought.

There was no lingering discomfort between them. Perhaps that would come later, in the light of day. But for the moment, the game was on and John was by his side. 

"Did you find something?" John asked, when they'd settled into their hired car, Sherlock navigating the dark and twisting roads as if he'd known them all his life. 

"In a manner of speaking," Sherlock said. His voice was hoarse, raw, and he shut his mouth, clenched his jaw. 

He could feel John's eyes on him. He'd given too much away. He should have remained silent.

"Are you—" John started.

"Fine," Sherlock said. 

"—all right?" John stopped, looked down at his hands, then back up at Sherlock. 

Sherlock had slowed the car to a crawl. The fog was thick. 

He was conscious of John's nervous breathing, of the tension that had filled the car in spite of his best efforts. Perhaps it was now time for that lingering discomfort after all. 

"John," he said, finally, when he could no longer bear it. 

"No, just—it's fine," John said. He shook his head. "I'm sorry. You've—um. You've made it plain that you don't want to talk about it, and I keep pressing, yeah? I'd just thought—well. We've already established that I'm an idiot, yeah?" 

"No," Sherlock said, and then he reconsidered. Smiled a little. "Well—" 

"Dick," John said, amiable enough. 

It was better, he thought. Not right, not exactly, but better. 

"It's all right," Sherlock said, after a time. "The—friend things. As you called them. You can ask." 

"That's not—" 

"I'm well aware that I don't attach the same emotional significance to certain experiences," Sherlock said. He did not look away from the road, from the headlights cutting through the fog. "To me, you—" his voice faltered, and he pushed on. "As far as I'm concerned, you already know everything of importance." 

John did not answer. 

After a long moment, Sherlock dared to glance over. 

John had his hand pressed against his mouth, was staring straight ahead. His eyes were soft. 

"John?" Sherlock asked, finally. 

John turned towards him. He nodded, once. Dropped his hand from his mouth and pursed his lips. Made as if to speak, said nothing.

Sherlock's heart thudded in his chest. 

"I—" John said. 

The house loomed up out of the fog, a burnt and sagging horror, and John's attention snapped away from Sherlock. He sat up straight.

"Jesus," he said. 

Sherlock tightened his hands on the wheel, pulled up through the weed-choked drive, gravel crunching under the tyres. He leaned forward, peered up, tried to remember. 

Vague snatches of memory. The house, large and rambling, winding stairways and narrow halls. Sunlight through the windows. Tall grass. 

"What is—" John paused, cleared his throat, looked at him. "This is—this is it, isn't it? This is your house. The one you—the one that—" 

"Yes," Sherlock said, and got out of the car. 

John followed. 

"When I said you already knew everything of importance," Sherlock said. He looked steadily at John. "I meant the things I could remember." 

*

He swept the beam of his torch over the house, but did not move closer to investigate. It did not seem to be of sound structure, and stumbling about in the dark was likely to bring the whole thing down on his head.

John stood next to him, staring up at the ruin. 

"Were you here?" he asked, his voice low, almost reverent. "When it happened?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. He had only the faintest of impressions, smoke and panicked cries. Most of what he knew, he'd been told. It had become part of the fabric of his history, just another bit of data, recited in matter-of-fact detail. 

His mother's voice, rueful: _We used to live in Sussex, of course, but there was the fire—_

Some well-meaning and impossibly dull neighbor: _Oh, how terribly sad!_

His mother, brusque, yet a bit wistful: _Oh, yes, it was quite difficult. We got out with just the clothes on our backs, you know. All of our photo albums, everything gone._ And then perking up, cheerful now, a bit false: _But, you know, probably all for the best. It was time for a change. You can get so stagnant, just waiting around, doing the same old thing every day, don't you think? We're much happier here._

Looking at it, now, he thought that perhaps the entire affair had been a bit more dramatic than his parents or Mycroft had ever let on. 

A light breeze rustled the grass. The charred bones of the house creaked and moaned, a haunted sound. 

There was a warm pressure against his arm. John, laying a companionable hand. Offering comfort. 

It seemed strange, to be comforted over something he could not remember. 

He was loath to step away from that strange but welcome warmth, but he did, letting John's hand fall away from his coat sleeve. He had come for a reason. 

Redbeard.

 _Victor._

He shut his eyes, breathed in the misty air and the smell of damp grass. The scent was familiar. It pulled at something in his chest, something buried deep. 

He had run through this grass, as a child. These grounds had been his domain, and he'd roamed far and wide, left no rock unturned. He'd thought the land held no secrets from him. 

He started walking. Stepped carefully, the grass tangling around his calves. 

When he'd been a child, it had been up to his waist. He'd torn through it, laughing, the wind whispering through the blades and rippling them in his wake like the sea. 

Redbeard at his side. 

Not a dog. Never a dog. 

They'd run together through the grass, seeking adventure, seeking danger. 

And when Redbeard was not there, when he was forced to entertain himself, he'd struck out on his own. His feet slipping through mud and clambering over rocks and thudding across wooden boards—

That sound. The whipcrack of old wood giving way. 

He pressed his fingers against his temples. Breathed. Breathed. Filled his lungs with Sussex air. Tried to remember. 

Grass and dirt and rocks. Uneven ground. The surface changing, his trainers skidding along damp wood where he'd expected rock. Cool air below, chilling his ankles. The wood had groaned a warning and cracked, the ground falling away beneath him, blackness rushing up to claim him. 

His fingers, scrabbling against stone, nails tearing, knee bashing up against jagged rock. Silent. He hadn't screamed. His heart had thudded in his chest and his breaths had come hard and fast and he'd held on, had heard Mycroft in his head, Mycroft lecturing him on _not thinking things through_ and he'd forced himself not to panic, he'd forced himself to _think._

And then he'd inched his hands along the stone mouth, had scrabbled for purchase and finally found a ledge for his feet, had dragged himself up, gasping and bloodied and frightened, and had lain there in the tall grass, panting.

And when his panic had receded, there had been curiosity. He'd clambered to his feet, limping a little, and had gone to investigate. 

A well. An old well, mostly buried, long since sealed up. He doubted his parents even knew it was there. He doubted anyone knew it was there. 

It had been covered over, and someone had laid down wood boards, but the wood had rotted through. It had given way under his weight. 

_Lucky,_ he'd thought at the time. He could have easily broken his neck and his parents would never have known where to look for him. 

The thought of a secret hiding place had appealed to him greatly, and he'd carefully dragged the bits of rotting wood back over the gaping mouth of the well.

And there had been a rustle in the grass, and he'd looked up sharply, afraid that he'd been caught. And for a moment he'd thought— _Eurus—_

Sherlock opened his eyes.

He had walked a good distance from the house. He was conscious of John behind him, of his tense quick breaths, the way he was coiled and ready for action. 

He took one step, and then another, and another. The texture of the ground changed beneath his feet, became rocky, uneven. Familiar. He stopped. 

"Sherlock?" John's voice behind him, concerned. 

He looked down. 

The well was barely visible in the dark, an uneven jut of stones, listing like a foundering ship. He crouched, put his hand on the damp, crumbling stone. Stared down into the yawning mouth, at the inky darkness below.

It was a long way to fall, he thought. A terribly long way down. 

"Victor," he said. The name felt strange on his tongue. 

The ground around the stones was damp, soft. Any wood left behind had long since rotted away. 

He stood up, stepped forward, and John's hand closed around his forearm. 

"What are you—" 

"I have to see," Sherlock said. He thought he sounded quite calm, given the circumstances. 

"You think there's something down there," John said. He blew out a breath, did not release Sherlock's arm. When he spoke again, his voice was resigned. "You think there's _someone_ down there." 

Sherlock did not respond.

"We should call someone. Do this properly," John said. 

"No," Sherlock said. "I have to know." He took off his coat, held it in his arms for a moment, unsure. 

John reached out, took it from him. Folded it over his forearm. His expression was difficult to read. 

"There's no rope," John said. 

"The stones are uneven. I can climb down." 

"Not in those shoes." 

Sherlock looked down at his shoes, all polished black leather. There was mud drying on the sides.

John was right, of course. The soles were slick. 

He bent down, untied his shoes, slipped them off. Stripped off his socks, laid them neatly over the tops of his shoes in a pile. Flexed his toes in the cold, damp mud. 

It was uncomfortable, and yet it felt familiar, tugged at some long-buried heartstring. He'd loved these grounds, once. He'd been a boy, and he'd run wild through the tall grass. 

"Christ," John said, and he looked miserable, cold and unhappy, but he made no move to stop him. "Just—be careful, Sherlock. One wrong step and the fall might kill you." 

"It's not the fall that kills you, it's the landing," Sherlock said, once more peering into the mouth of the well. 

John made a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan. "Not actually comforting." 

Sherlock looked back at him, feeling strangely warm. It struck him at odd moments, the fact that John _cared._ Specifically, that John cared about _him._

He went over the lip of the well before he could find a reason to delay himself further. His fingers slipped against slick stone, his toes seeking and finding narrow ridges to settle.

He'd caught himself here, once. Had caught and held on and dragged himself back up into the sunlight.

He lowered himself carefully. Down. Down. The stone was icy against his skin. He was very conscious of the sound of his own breathing, his own heartbeat. John watched him, his worried face backlit by the slowly lightening sky. 

His arms protested. His shirt shifted uncomfortably against his back, pulling tight as he descended. His feet touched water and he stepped down, cautious, feeling for the bottom. 

The water was icy and sludgy, stirring around his calves. 

"Sherlock?" John called down. 

He did not answer. The air quality was poor, thick with the smell of old mud and stale water and mould. He looked up at the ring of grey sky, at the faint outlines of the stones all around. His teeth chattered. 

"Sherlock," John said again. "Did you find anything?" 

Sherlock pressed his hand against his mouth, crouched down. Swept his other hand through the murky water. There were rocks at the bottom, jagged and broken. Rocks and snarled weeds and—

Oh.

He shut his eyes. 

"Bones," he said. 

*

He did not recall climbing out of the well. 

His hands showed signs of it, red angry skin where his knuckles had scraped against wet stone. A torn fingernail on his left index finger. There was a tear in the knee of his trousers. 

He'd found his way to John, John had him, and that was enough. 

John had called the police. They fanned out along the property, taking photographs, writing things in their little notebooks. A detective had introduced himself. Sherlock had promptly forgotten his name. 

Someone had wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. It had been a welcome weight against his damp skin. 

The sun rose. Climbed high into the sky. 

At some point, John took him by the arm, led him away through the tall grass, back to the car. He'd not said a word. Or perhaps he had, and Sherlock had simply filtered him out. He was not entirely sure. 

He was not entirely sure of anything. 

John brought them back to the inn, held onto Sherlock's arm and walked him up the stairs and down the hall towards their room. 

His body felt strangely numb, slow to respond, useless. His brain was an engine hooked to a dying battery, sparking, gasping, unable to fully ignite. 

John undressed him with no hesitation, no discomfort, just brisk military efficiency. Rubbed a scratchy towel over his chilled, damp skin. He thought perhaps he should be grateful for that. Or perhaps terribly embarrassed, instead. 

He left his wet, muddied clothes in a heap on the floor. They'd have to be thrown out. He'd never get the smell of mud and rot (and death) out of them. 

"Go on," John said, pulling back the blankets on the little twin bed. 

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock said. "It's the middle of the day." 

He climbed into the bed anyway, pulled the blankets around himself. He was cold. His head ached. There would be an investigation. He would need to answer questions. They should not have let him leave the scene. Why had they let him leave the scene?

John remained standing by the edge of the bed. He was thinking. He might as well have been shouting. 

"Whatever it is that you're prevaricating on, just do it," Sherlock said into his pillow. "For God's sake, just stop thinking so loudly." 

"Right," John said, and there was no humour in his voice. There was a muffled thunk against the floorboards as he toed off his shoes. 

The blankets lifted, cold air wafting in, and Sherlock made a protesting noise, curled up into himself. He shivered. And then John was there, still in his shirt and jeans, a warm solid weight pressed against his back, his arm heavy and comfortable as it curled around his midsection. 

"People will definitely talk," John said, his voice at once wry and wary and _right there,_ breath puffing gently against Sherlock's ear. 

Sherlock chuckled, the sound emerging as little more than a wheeze. 

John stiffened slightly. Hesitant again. "All right?" 

"Yes, obviously." 

"Sherlock," John said, his voice low and quiet and strangely fond. "Nothing at all about you is obvious." 

"That's because you see, but you—" 

"—don't observe, yeah. Got that. Thanks," John sighed, shifted slightly, his arm tightening around Sherlock and bringing a delightful wave of heat with it. "Are you—seriously, Sherlock—are you all right?" 

"Fine." 

"You're freezing." 

"Yes, well, it's winter and I was down a well. What did you expect?" 

John laughed, startled and genuine. "It's spring." 

"What does it matter? It's still cold." 

John laughed again, and said nothing. There was a rustle of blankets as he seemed to settle in.

John was—concerned about him. John was not giving off any indication that he was angry or disappointed or any of the things he should be. 

John had climbed into bed with him, in spite of his own reservations, and seemed to be making himself comfortable. 

And all of this after Sherlock had so clearly demonstrated his own ineptitude. His failure. 

It was intolerable. 

"I fell in," he said to the wall. 

"What?" 

"To the well," Sherlock clarified. "As a boy. I didn't—I didn't remember. But I do now." 

"How did you get out?" 

"Caught myself on the ledge. Climbed back up." Sherlock frowned, stared at the wallpaper. "No one knew it was there. I didn't tell anyone. I thought it was cool." He practically spit the word. 

John was quiet for a time. Then he shifted, tightened his arm around Sherlock's middle. "I imagine it was, to a kid." 

"He died there."

"Yeah," John said, still not recoiling, _why_ wasn't he recoiling? "And you didn't." 

Sherlock did not know how to respond to that. He said nothing. John was warm and comfortable behind him. He thought he could get used to the feeling.

"You've been angry with me," he said, finally. 

"No," John said. 

"Pretty sure I've noticed." 

John sighed. "I'm sorry. It's not—I'm not angry with you." 

"Something's changed." 

"Nothing has to change." 

"It already has." 

John sighed again, stiffening up, drawing back into himself. "Have you warmed up?" 

"No," Sherlock lied. 

"I should—" John said, starting to sit up, starting to leave. 

Sherlock rolled over, caught his wrist. 

"This is not the time to be having this conversation," John said, his eyes sliding away. "You're in shock." 

Sherlock wrinkled up his nose. "I'm not in shock. What conversation?" 

"Sherlock." 

"Only a little bit of shock," he amended. "It's fine. I have a blanket." 

"Later," John said, and he reached up and cupped Sherlock's cheek, his warm rough palm ghosting against his skin. He climbed out of the bed, pulled the blankets up behind him, tucked them close under Sherlock's chin. 

Sherlock watched him go. Closed his eyes. 

*

He snapped fully awake, looked at the slanting late afternoon light on the wall. Turned his head. 

John was sitting on the other bed, back against the wall, reading. He glanced up as Sherlock's bedsprings squeaked. 

"What time is it?" Sherlock asked. 

"Almost five." 

Nearly three hours, gone. He couldn't recall if he'd dreamed.

"I fell asleep," Sherlock said, and then, feeling foolish for making such an obvious statement, added: "Get your things, we'll take the next train back to London." 

"Sherlock, wait—" John said.

"What are you on about?" Sherlock stood up in a rush, flailing a bit to disentangle himself from the sheets. 

John coughed, looked away. 

Right. Not wearing clothes. Should have remembered that. 

Deciding it would make things worse to acknowledge it, Sherlock walked calmly into the bathroom, shut the door behind him. 

He paused for a moment. Sighed. Opened the door again. 

"Clothes," he said. 

There was a muffled thump as a pair of trousers hit the doorframe, followed by a shirt.

"Careful," he said. John had balled up his shirt before throwing it (with far more force than was really necessary, in his opinion), and it was almost certainly wrinkled beyond hope. 

He made the best of it, and emerged from the bathroom dressed and—if not feeling _good,_ exactly, at least feeling more like himself.

John was standing next to his bed, tucking his few belongings back into the suitcase. He looked up at Sherlock's approach, held his gaze for a long moment. 

Whatever it was in his eyes, it was not disappointment. 

"This is going to be a big story," John said, finally. His voice was quiet, resigned. He did not look away from Sherlock's face. "In all the papers. It's not—you've got a certain level of fame now, Sherlock. They're not going to leave you alone. The press love scandals, and this—murder, long-lost sisters, family secrets—it's—it might get ugly for a while before it all dies down." 

He found himself unable to speak, caught up in staring at the open expression on John's face. 

"Who cares?" he finally managed to say.

John opened his mouth, shut it. Hesitated. "I care, Sherlock." 

"You," Sherlock said. "You care what they say about me in the papers. Why? What could that possibly—" 

"Because you're my friend," John said. "Because I—" he cut himself off, looked away.

"Because you what?" Sherlock pressed, stepping up close, his voice dropping, challenging. 

"Sherlock—" John said, his voice strained. 

"I don't understand," Sherlock said. He peered down at John's face, seeking to unravel all of his mysteries, finding nothing. "You've been angry with me without a reason for weeks, but now that you have a reason, you—"

"Not actually angry with you," John said, holding up his hand. "And—what reason? What reason could I possibly have to be angry with you right now? And don't tell me it's because you unplugged the fridge before we left Baker Street, because I saw you do that, Sherlock, and I plugged it back in when the taxi pulled up." 

Sherlock blinked. 

"Which means you must think I should be angry with you over something more recent than that. Something like—what you—what you found. In that well." 

Sherlock looked down at the ground. He was conscious, suddenly, of the warmth in the room, of the play of fading sunlight against the walls, of the fact that they should be on their way home, on their way back to London, leaving the tall grass and the rambling manor houses and the family secrets behind them. 

"His name was Victor Trevor," he said. 

"I know," John said softly. "You told me." 

"He was my friend. And I killed him." 

John shook his head. "No. You didn't." 

"I found that well," Sherlock said. "I knew it was there. I kept it a secret."

"That's what children do." 

"She put him down there and she left him there. My own buried treasure in my own secret hiding place. She might as well have drawn me a map. I was too—" his voice broke, "—too stupid to figure it out." 

John took a step forward, placed a tentative hand on Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock jerked it back as if burned.

 _I will burn you,_ Moriarty had hissed, his dark eyes flat and calculating. 

The sight of John in Semtex had nearly brought him to his knees, even then, and he hadn't even known—

He hadn't even known, yet, what John meant to him. Wasn't sure he could put it into words, even now.

He'd let Victor drown because he _cared._ He hadn't been able to see past his (useless, distracting) emotions to solve the puzzle that was right in front of his face—

 _Caring is not an advantage,_ Mycroft, lecturing, smug and superior and right, always right. Always, always right.

Caring about Victor had doomed him. Caring about John had led Moriarty right to him. And Moriarty was still out there, waiting for his moment, waiting to initiate round two of his terrible game. 

"I don't have friends," he said, holding out a hand to keep John at bay, his tone dark, warning. 

"Yes, you do." John sounded mild. 

"No," he said, and he curled his lip, put as much disdain into his sneer as he could manage. "I don't." 

And somehow it wasn't working, John was still looking at him with that mild expression, his eyes soft. That tone should have sent him storming off, should have _hurt,_ should have filled his face with disappointment—

Oh.

_Oh._

"You're not angry with me," he said, speaking slowly, relaxing his defensive posture. 

John looked steadily back at him. "I said I wasn't." 

He thought of John's face—how it had tightened up, his eyes gone hard, his mouth gone flat—when Sherlock had called Charles McCarthy by the wrong name. Thought of the way that all of the comfortable good humour they shared had begun to dissipate when they found themselves alone together. Thought of the way the space between them felt strangely charged and heavy, the way his skin would prickle and his stomach would knot, the very air seeming to crackle with anticipation of _something._

"You want things I can't give you," Sherlock said. 

John winced, scratched the back of his neck. Perhaps his wording had been clumsy, but he suspected the deduction was correct. 

"I've miscalculated," he continued. "You _are_ angry, of course. Disappointed. But I'm not the focus. Or at least, not directly. You're disappointed in yourself. For—" he faltered, an unpleasant chill creeping down his spine, at odds with the warmth rising in his face, "—for caring about someone incapable of—" 

"Stop," John said, and he did sound angry, his voice rough. But his eyes had gone bright, and his mouth was soft and perhaps it wasn't anger in his voice at all but something else entirely. 

"I don't have friends, John," Sherlock said. His heart skittered in his chest and he feared, for a moment, that he might be sick. He forced his mouth into a hard smile. "I don't care about other people. Moriarty was right, in that sense. People die. It's what they do. They die, and I delete them. Because it's more _efficient_ that way. Better for brainwork." 

"Sherlock," John said, and somehow, somehow, he still showed no signs of walking away. He laughed. _Laughed!_ A disbelieving, scoffing sound. "You honestly expect me to believe that you deleted Victor because it was efficient?" 

"No sense dwelling on the past," Sherlock said, and even as he spoke he thought of the slippery-smooth bones in his hands, small and light and fragile. Thought of his own panicked breaths and pounding heart as he'd dangled there over the edge, how he'd been silent, how he had not once cried out. Wondered what it had been like for Victor, how long he'd waited for rescue before realising that no one was coming. If he'd called for help. If his voice had grown hoarse and tired and cracked. If he'd been frightened, if he'd been cold, if he'd been hopeful or resigned to his fate.

"You know, I was right about you that first night," John said, his voice thoughtful. 

Sherlock snapped his head up. He was trembling, he realised. Afraid. Unsure and uneasy, the ground unsteady beneath him. As if all that stood between him and a terrible fall was a bit of old, rotten wood, already groaning with the strain. 

"Right about what?" he demanded.

"You're an idiot," John said. He shook his head, smiled. It was a gentle smile, affectionate, bemused. An utterly inappropriate reaction. He should have been shouting. He should have been storming out. He should have been preparing for a silent, tense ride back to London.

"I—" Sherlock said. He could not think of a single thing to say in his own defence. 

"You don't always act like it, but you're human," John said. "And any time I've doubted that, it's been my mistake. And that's a—it’s a pretty fucking huge mistake. Unforgivable, really." 

Sherlock shook his head. Opened his mouth. 

"You deleted Victor because it _hurt,_ you absolute dick," John said. "Do you even believe half of what comes out of your mouth, or do you just say it because you think you're supposed to?"

Sherlock stared at him. 

"And I've been—yeah, all right. I know I've been acting a little—off. Lately. Because I've been trying to wrap my head around this—around the fact that the biggest arsehole I've ever met is also the single most important person in my life, and I don't know how it's gotten to the point where I can't live without you, but it has and—Christ—" John stopped talking abruptly, pressed his lips together. Looked up at the ceiling. 

Sherlock blinked. Replayed John's words in his mind. Replayed them again. His vision blurred.

"Been trying to avoid hitting you with all of that for weeks, and I go and just—blurt it out now. Brilliant. Yeah. Excellent timing." 

"Oh," Sherlock said. 

Clearly not a helpful response. 

John turned away, closed his suitcase with more force than strictly necessary. "We should get going. Catch that next train back to London, yeah?" 

Sherlock blinked. The room felt at once much too cold and far too warm. His hands trembled. John seemed upset at having spoken, but his words were—good. 

"John," he tried.

John looked up. His shoulders were tense. 

Sherlock thought again of Semtex and chlorinated air and dancing red lights. 

_I'm afraid that I can't live without you, either. And I'm afraid that I'm going to have to. One way or another._

He couldn't very well say that. 

"Should I kiss you?" he said, instead.

John coughed. "Should you—what?" 

"That seems to be one commonly acceptable response to, um. Significant emotional declarations." 

"No. Nope," John said. Shook his head. Hesitated, looked back up at Sherlock. "Unless—did you _want_ to kiss me?" 

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted.

"All right." 

Sherlock looked at John's lips. Considered. "I think so." 

"You think you want to kiss me." John's voice was dubious now. 

"I don't particularly want to kiss anyone," Sherlock said, distracted by the bewildered curve of John's mouth. "At least, not usually. Hard to say for sure. But I find myself thinking—oh, for God's sake—" 

He cut himself off, took two quick steps forward, seized John's head between his palms. Brought their lips together. John's lips were warm and dry, slightly chapped, his mouth open on a slight exhalation of surprise. 

He pulled back before he could lose himself in analyzing the sensation, before his clumsy motions could betray his woeful lack of experience. His entire body shook, a fine tremble that he could not seem to stifle. John's breath puffed warm against his lips, mildly stale.

John looked—shocked. 

"You kissed me," he said.

Sherlock frowned. "You're not generally the most observant of people, John, but I assumed that much was obvious." 

"Oh my God," John said. "You're going to be a dick about this, too. Why am I not surprised?" 

Sherlock was smiling. He could not quite say when it had started. He could not quite seem to make it stop. 

"So what's the verdict?" John asked, looking at him with his brows raised, a smug little smile on those lips (and he'd tasted those lips, now, and very much wanted to do so again.) 

"Hm," Sherlock said. "Not bad, as initial trials go. May need more evidence." 

He took a step forward and this time John met him halfway, unhesitating, his arms coming up to wrap around Sherlock's waist, to pull him close against John's compact, sturdy frame. He was warm. Their mouths brushed clumsily against one another, noses bumping, before Sherlock tilted his head and—oh—that was why people did this—

His hands were unable to settle in any one place and so they roamed, carding through John's hair, skating down his back (fingertips investigating the dips of his spine through the soft fabric of his shirt), dancing lightly across his hips, the waistband of his jeans. 

He _wanted._

He wanted, and he knew he shouldn't want. This was something that was fine for other people, for ordinary people with their ordinary lives. It was good, it was—it wasn't something that he could have. His mind already went blank, _terrifyingly_ blank, at the thought of John in danger, and that was without adding an additional component to their relationship. 

If losing John the friend was unfathomable, losing John the lover would be—

It would be catastrophic. It would kill him. 

One of John's hands had found its way into his hair, short blunt nails scratching blissfully along his scalp, and he shivered. John's other hand was at his waist, rucking up his shirt, wrinkling it further. He should care about that, he knew. But then John's hand was on his skin, sliding up his side, lightly callused fingers slipping along his ribs, and the shirt was forgotten.

John made a noise, a raw sound in the back of his throat, and Sherlock's knees buckled. 

There was no coming back from this, he knew. No hastily erected defence, no amount of self-preservation would ever erase that sound from his mind. 

John caught him, his arm looped around his waist, laughing a little into Sherlock's mouth (oh, that was what John's laughter tasted like, that was _delightful_ ), and he pressed a firm kiss against Sherlock's lips before pulling his head away to mouth a messy trail down Sherlock's neck and—

The fact that he'd ever gone without this seemed, suddenly, absurd. 

"Me too," he said, his voice breathless, and John paused in his assault on Sherlock's neck. 

"What?"

"The. Um. Whole—" Sherlock lifted one hand away from John's back, waved it helplessly in the air. "Living without you—thing. Can't do it." 

John stepped back slightly, tilted his head so that he was looking straight into Sherlock's eyes. His face was flushed, his lips swollen, his eyes dark and damp. He smiled, a small thing, but genuine. Shut his eyes. Nodded once, a short, sharp little movement.

"This is a terrible idea," Sherlock said. John in his heavy parka, John with his brave face and his Semtex vest. John's broken voice parroting Moriarty's words _I could stop John Watson_ while lasers danced merrily across his chest (only three-point-five pounds of pressure needed for that trigger, just an insignificant twitch of the finger and John would be dead, John would be gone from his life forever).

"Do you think so?" 

"Yes," he said. He looked at John's lips again, felt a pull in the pit of his stomach. "No." 

John tilted his head, studied him for a long moment. "It's Moriarty, isn't it? That's what's frightening you. Has been for a while, I think." 

Sherlock blinked, took an instinctive step backwards. "I'm not frightened," he said. His voice did not sound quite as certain as he'd have liked.

"Right," John said. "Sure. Nothing to fear but fear itself. All that rot." 

"No," Sherlock said. He seemed unable to properly control his breathing. "Fear is a perfectly logical response to dangerous situations." 

"He'll be back," John said, undeterred. "We both know it. You've been—waiting for it, I think." 

"Nothing frightening about Moriarty," Sherlock said, and that was true. Moriarty wasn't frightening, Moriarty was _interesting._ It was Moriarty's plans that were frightening, the certainty that his next great game would come with a cost Sherlock was unwilling to pay.

A cost he was unable to pay.

"Well," John said, grimacing. "We'll agree to disagree on that one." 

No. It wasn't Moriarty that was frightening. It was what Moriarty could do. Would do. 

"Caring is not an advantage," he said. He drew himself up to his full height, looked down at John, quietly begged him to _understand._ He could do little against Moriarty in such a compromised state. There was far too much to lose. 

"Yeah it is," John said quietly, stepping forward, not at all put off. His face was soft, his eyes kind. He put out his hand, cupped Sherlock's cheek.

He should retreat, he knew. It would be wiser. Safer. Instead, he shut his eyes, sighed. 

"Alone is all that I have," Sherlock said, desperate now, his voice quiet and hoarse. John's palm was warm against his cheek, his thumb stroking gentle circles. "Alone protects me." 

"Friends protect you," John said, not stepping away. "And I'm your friend." 

"More than that, I think." 

John laughed, a quiet, dark chuckle that shot through Sherlock's body, coiling in his lower belly, reawakening that startling _want._ "Yes. Yeah. All right. But I'm your friend first, Sherlock. Before anything else. And I won't let anything happen to you." 

_You happened to me,_ Sherlock thought miserably. 

"I'm trying to do the same for you," he said. 

"Then nothing's changed." 

Sherlock cut his eyes towards the rumpled little bed against the wall, sheets askew where he'd kicked himself to his feet after his nap. Looked back at John. Raised his brows.

John laughed again, shook his head. "Your bed is a lot bigger." 

"It's a lot farther away." 

"Worth the wait, I think," John said. "Besides, this place is full of ghosts." He leaned up, pressed a soft kiss against Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock melted forward, eyes slipping shut once again. He was lost. There was no returning from this.

"Come on," John said, kissing him once more, stepping back. His smile was genuine, and tender, and a little sad. "Let's go home." 

*

**Author's Note:**

> If any of the names or small details seemed familiar to you, that's because the case in this fic borrows heavily from ACD's "The Boscombe Valley Mystery."


End file.
